


Summit and Gravity

by sekaiseifuku



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: 7thnight_smut, Hermaphrodites, Other, Show Business, mangaka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekaiseifuku/pseuds/sekaiseifuku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shueisha enlists the aid of a talent management agency to assist with a mangaka who has begun to attract public attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summit and Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meicdon13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meicdon13/gifts).



> **Notes** : It's about time I got off my tuchus and posted this! Written for [](http://meicdon13.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**meicdon13**](http://meicdon13.dreamwidth.org/) in the 2011 [](http://7thnight-smut.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**7thnight_smut**](http://7thnight-smut.dreamwidth.org/) exchange. The title of Kanzeon Bosatsu’s manga, as well as this fic, was shamelessly stolen from Octavio Paz’s poem of the same name. Special thanks to [](http://genkisakka.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://genkisakka.dreamwidth.org/)**genkisakka** , my beta extraordinaire, who listened to the absolutely insane volume of crazy ideas this prompt spawned and did battle with all my hyphens. As always, I tinkered with it well after she worked her beta-fu, so subsequent mistakes are no fault of hers!  
>  **A word of warning to anyone who cares** : Rather than using non-gender-specific pronouns when referring to Kanzeon Bosatsu, I’ve chosen to refer to hir as a woman as a reflection of Jiro’s deeply ingrained traditional mindset. I see him being very much a “if she looks like a woman and acts like a woman (mostly), she’s a woman,” type person. Apologies if this offends.

The entertainment industry, Jiro Shin often thought to himself, was truly a thing of beauty. Tens of thousands of individuals moving together to transmute the chaotic creative urges of the undisciplined into works of beauty, joy, and delight that permeated the whole of society. He believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that life would be less worth living without his contributions and those of his comrades in arms. What would the salarymen do, after all, with no magazines to read during their commutes or variety shows to watch after long hours toiling at the office? How could the children survive years of examination hell without being able to look forward to the weekly exploits of their favorite anime and manga characters? Without music or idol groups, how would young people find the common interests that were so necessary in forming the basis of lasting relationships?

He knew that he, like almost everyone else in the sprawling metropolis he’d come to love over the past twenty years, was nothing more than a tiny cog. But he also knew that each and every cog had an important function and that a malfunction in just one could bring the entire machine to a grinding halt. That is why he took his work as seriously as if he were the Prime Minister himself.

Nervous by nature, Jiro was the kind of person who spent much of his mental energy worrying about everything he thought all normal people should: being polite, being on time, properly separating his trash, saving money, bad breath, metabolic syndrome, traffic accidents, cancer, tainted food from China, foreigners, avian flu, subway bombs, earthquakes, and – just occasionally, and only when he’d stayed up too late watching bad sci-fi reruns – the possibility of an alien invasion.

He would be the first to admit that he worried perhaps more than most, but he would also admit that it was this attention to detail and ability to predict and avoid the worst-case scenario that made him – if he did say so himself – an excellent manager. One of the best, even.

In his first year as a full-fledged manager, he’d been assigned Fujiwara Ryousuke, an aging enka singer with a short temper and a penchant for the dramatic. Unbeknownst to him, the company had already put an expiry date of just six months on Fujiwara and quite frankly hadn’t expected him to do much. Jiro had managed not only to outlast their prediction, but to drag the singer from the depths of obscurity and resurrect his career from its barely smoldering ashes. Six years later, after twelve Top 3 singles, seven nationwide tours, no less than five nervous breakdowns, a botched cosmetic procedure and a PR nightmare of a feud with a prominent daytime talk show host, Fujiwara had announced that he would be moving to Okinawa to spend retirement with his eight grandchildren.

Jiro had grown fond of him in his own way, but was admittedly excited about the endless possibilities he saw before him. He wasn’t particularly vested in the enka world and was ready to branch out and see what he could accomplish next. In his time in The Business, he’d dealt with a wide range of eccentric, unorganized, unreliable, self-involved and occasionally maddening people. Each of them was like a puzzle to him: work out their motivations and you could predict, within a certain margin of error, what they would do and how they would react to outside stimuli. Jiro had always excelled at puzzles and was confident he could take on whatever challenge the company saw fit to throw his way.

When his boss approached him with his new assignment, he thought it was a joke.

“A mangaka?” He must have heard incorrectly. “I hadn’t realized that we represent mangaka.”

After his success with Fujiwara, he’d secretly hoped for a model or singer aspiring to expand into television. He had the contacts, after all. He couldn’t imagine what kinds of appearances a mangaka would need to make and why he or she would need a manager at all. Surely his boss was joking.

_She just **had** to be._

“She’s an … interesting case.”

“Interesting?” Jiro had been around long enough to be the slightest bit worried about what exactly his boss meant by that.

“She’s begun to attract attention and there are increasing demands on her time. I know you don’t get to watch many of the late-night shows, but she’s made a few appearances and there’s quite a buzz starting. You’ll understand when you see the clips.” She handed him a DVD.

“She’s drawing _Summit and Gravity_ , the adaptation of _The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter_ that’s been running in _Ultra Jump_. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. In this version the daughter is a son – a gorgeous alien son – and instead of taking place on Earth, they’re on a futuristic space colony.”

“I haven’t really followed manga since I was a kid.” But _Jump_ … that was big.

“Really? It’s quite popular, actually. Don’t tell anyone, but I read it myself.” She winked at him. “It’s very well done. They recently licensed an anime version; the fans have been clamoring for one for quite some time now. Shueisha called us to secure someone to coordinate the increasing demand for her appearances and to help her with a few … time management issues.”

“I don’t mean to question your judgment,” Jiro began, “but I don’t know anything about manga. Or publishing for that matter.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “You’ll learn what you absolutely need to fairly quickly and Tenpou, her editor, will take care of the publishing side of things. Your responsibility will be cultivating her public face while ensuring she has adequate time to work on the manga.” She slid a dossier across the table. “Take a look at this, as well as that DVD. You’re set to meet with Tenpou tomorrow morning and he’ll fill you in on anything else you’ll need to know.”

That night, Jiro sat down on the tatami mats of his one and only room and cracked open a can of Asahi Super Dry as he let his nightly Cup Noodle sit and absorb hot water for the requisite two minutes. He grabbed his remote and turned on the DVD player, ready to watch the series of clips that had been compiled from several late-night programs over the past few months.

He’d never met a mangaka before, but he’d always imagined them as being the kind of people who shut themselves indoors the majority of the time – quiet and socially awkward. As the first clip played, he saw that his new client was nothing like he’d imagined. Kanzeon Bosatsu, as she called herself, looked more like someone who had walked off the pages of _Weekly Asahi Geinou_ than someone involved with the manga business.

In her first interview, she engaged in a brief conversation with a late-night host who was obviously a fan of her series. Jiro was pleased to note – in a completely professional context, of course – that she was an incredibly attractive woman. She had an amazing amount of coal-black hair that she wore tied partially back, but the thing he’d almost immediately focused in on was her face. She had flawless skin, full lips and eyes that seemed they could be a deep shade of violet, rather than brown. That color, combined with the fact that there was something about her features that was just the slightest bit exotic, made him wonder if she weren’t at least partially foreign. She had no accent, however, and if one ignored the fact that she eschewed the conventions of feminine language and spoke like a 25-year old man, her manner of speaking was absolutely flawless.

Watching her on screen, it was as if she made everyone around her fade into the background. As the next clip began and he found his attention once again riveted on her, Jiro realized that his new client was one of the rare, lucky people who was possessed of the special kind of natural charisma that drew people’s attention to them and kept it there.

A thrill raced through him. The way she held herself, the way she tilted her head and smiled just-so made the viewer feel as though she was speaking through the distance, directly to them. It wasn’t that she attracted attention so much that she _demanded_ it. And in his experience, that innate ability was something that was very rare indeed.

It wasn’t long, however, before Jiro understood exactly what his boss had meant when she’d said Kanzeon Bosatsu was an “interesting case.” As the clips continued, he saw her interactions with the hosts and even the other guests grow more and more outrageous. She flirted, teased, wore practically indecent clothing and talked about all manner of adult topics in a way that was practically pornographic. There was a certain degree of titillation to be expected on late-night television, but she seemed to have no shame at all.

Not even when a fellow guest – some crass, bottom-feeding comedian from Osaka – pointed at the front of her very tight jeans and asked if she was “packing a Magnum.” Jiro actually gasped aloud at the sheer audacity. Kanzeon Bosatsu didn’t hit the man, as he’d half expected her to, or even have the good manners to pretend that she was embarrassed by such an incredibly inappropriate question. Instead, she just laughed and went on to explain explicitly and in very great detail how nature had gifted her with “the best of both worlds.” Had Jiro not been sitting on the floor, he probably would have fallen out of his chair from the shock of it.

He hadn’t even known such a thing was possible, but there it was.

Thankfully, that clip seemed to be the only time Kanzeon Bosatsu spoke about that particular topic. In the next few clips, anytime someone attempted to bring it up she laughed it off, explaining that she had no desire to talk about “old news.” She eventually began using the repeated attempts revisit the topic as opportunities for her to proposition a wide variety of celebrity hosts and guests, both male and female, suggesting that they find out the answers to their questions after the show. Jiro had to admire her strategy; it wasn’t long before people stopped bringing it up at all.

He wondered, as the DVD came to an end and the television screen went dark, if any of them had actually taken her up on her offer.

Not that he was at all interested in knowing anything of the sort.

Jiro had no idea what he was going to do with his new client. The clips had created more questions than they’d answered and he hoped that his meeting with Tenpou, her editor, would help him to get a better grasp on the challenge that lay before him. Mangaka worked very closely with their editors, he’d been told.

_He must have some useful insight. **Something.**_

As it turned out, however, the meeting did nothing to set Jiro’s mind at ease. The man arrived ten minutes late wearing a rumpled suit, stained tie, and mismatched socks, and while Jiro would never say it out loud, his first impression of the man was that he’d not encountered anyone as unprofessional since Fujiwara had finally been talked into firing his long-time “assistant,” a sullen, balding man who had seemed to do little more than chain smoke and miss telephone calls.

After introductions had been exchanged, Tenpou sat down and rustled around in the large frog-shaped bag he’d brought with him and eventually pulled out a can of coffee and a package of Mild Sevens. He lit a cigarette and proceeded talk at Jiro in a manner that more resembled a stream of consciousness than an actual briefing.

According to Tenpou, Kanzeon Bosatsu was an unparalleled artistic genius. He gushed about her lush drawing style; he heralded her innovative methods of storytelling; he praised her novel ideas and ability to turn the expected upside down; he explained how her propensity to say exactly what was on her mind, conventions of polite discourse be damned, was like a bracing ocean gale blasting through the stifling office air of Shueisha.

It was, perhaps, one of the least useful conversations Jiro had ever had.

The only truly piece of useful information he managed to extract, other than the fact that Tenpou was one of Kanzeon Bosatu’s biggest fans, was that his new charge was not the kind of person who excelled at imposing structure on herself, which is why the company had decided to call in a manager.

Thankfully, structure was something Jiro did very, very well.

The first day Jiro met Kanzeon Bosatsu, however, he realized managing Fujiwara had been a child’s game. Nothing he had done up until this point had even begun to prepare him for the challenge that lay ahead.

It wasn’t the fact that she was even later than Tenpou had been to their first meeting – seventeen, almost eighteen minutes in her case. He was used to the talent being late. It wasn’t the way she walked into the office like she owned it and everyone one present. The talent often had inflated perceptions of their own importance. It wasn’t even the brain-jarring contradiction of breasts practically falling out of an obscenely small bustier while skin-tight leather pants left no question as to what exactly they were attempting to cover. He’d be damned if he was going to let a small thing like contradictory sexual characteristics faze him. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d been caught off guard by that particular fact.

What clued Jiro in to the fact that he was way, way out of his league was the way her eyes immediately locked on him and she grinned in what could only be described as a predatory way. She was across the room before he knew it, suddenly standing much closer to him than propriety dictated.

The only thing he could think at the moment was that she was _tall_. She was taller than him by a good twenty centimeters, although ten of those were likely attributable to her stiletto heels. She stood so close that he had to crane his neck to see her face and at such close proximity her presence was almost a physical touch, causing his heart to speed up. He felt suddenly as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

“You must be Jiro.” She smiled, an expression that somehow managed to seem welcoming, haughty, mischievous, and dangerous all at the same time.

“Yes …” He stood his ground and fumbled in his coat pocket for a business card. “I’m Jiro Shin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He handed the card to her with both hands, stepping back only to bow perhaps just the slightest bit more than was necessary. “I look forward to working with you.”

She took his card between two perfectly manicured fingers and leaned in, her face even more uncomfortably close. She reached toward him with her free hand, stroking his cheek ever so softly.

“Oh yes, cupcake,” she purred. “You’ll do just _fine_.”

  


~*~

  
Over the next few months, Jiro learned a great deal about exactly what went into making manga. It was more complex than he had imagined, involving storyboards, rough sketches, final sketches, inking, screen tones and surprisingly more computer work than one would think. And Kanzeon Bosatsu – unlike a large number of mangaka, Tenpou had eventually explained – did the majority of her work alone.

Other mangaka had regular meetings with editors and several assistants to assist them, but Kanzeon Bosatsu was not someone who could ever be described as collaborative. Jiro had begun to suspect this when she’d fallen asleep in their first and only attempt at holding a planning meeting at the agency and realized it for a fact when she’d told Kouji Iida, director of the early morning news program Jiro had managed to get her a booking on during his third week, that the questions he had scripted were boring enough to put even the most highly caffeinated viewers back to sleep.

Jiro’d had to send a very large, very expensive bottle of whisky in apology.

Kanzeon Bosatsu did engage in cursory consultations with Tenpou, which she seemed to tolerate if not enjoy. She also employed a single assistant: a quiet, white-haired teen named Nataku (a penname, Jiro was sure). One week a month, he was a fixture in her studio, spending hours on end working on backgrounds, inking filler panels, and using some computer program Jiro couldn’t begin to understand to clean the pages and apply virtual screen tone before sending them to Tenpou for final approval.

Strangely enough, it was Nataku with whom she seemed to have the best working relationship. She treated him in something resembling a maternal way, although the word “maternal” didn’t seem to belong in the same _room_ as Kanzeon Bosatsu. She teased Nataku mercilessly, but actually asked for and listened to his opinions, and seemed to rely quite heavily on him to see to the multitude of minute and detailed tasks that were a necessary part of the creation of manga. Jiro firmly believed that without Nataku, the entire project would have fallen apart very early on, because quite honestly, the vast majority of effort he’d seen Kanzeon Bosatsu put forth was in the form of developing ever more creative and varied methods of trying to get deadline extensions.

He would admit that her work, when she actually completed it, was quite good. He was no judge of manga as literature, but he enjoyed the story and found her art to be quite evocative. She was, however, one of the most unreliable, arrogant, and downright maddening people he’d ever met. She behaved as if she didn’t care at all what others thought of her or the impact her actions had on them. And it had taken him nearly six weeks of seeing her interact with people in varying capacities to realize that her ever-growing popularity was not in spite of her character, but _because of it_.

There was no one on earth, he thought, quite like Kanzeon Bosatsu. She seemed to fill a need that The Business hadn’t realized it’d had … until now. Thanks to the exceptional way Jiro had leveraged the relationships he’d built while working with Fujiwara, he’d managed to secure a steady stream of bookings fairly early in their relationship. In addition to the expected appearances at bookstores and manga-related venues, which the public relations department at Shueisha had turned over to him in his first week, he’d booked her on all the shows of which an aspiring celebrity could dream. She’d been on morning shows, daytime shows, late-night shows, variety shows, quiz shows … the works.

At first he’d feared that those outside the late-night circuit would bring up the incredibly inappropriate topic of her “unique features,” but word had somehow gotten out. Not once had the topic been brought up in a live appearance and only once had a producer approached him to inquire if she would be willing to speak about it. Jiro had very politely apologized for the inconvenience and the topic had been quickly dropped.

She’d been featured in the expected magazines – _Newtype_ , _Animage_ , and the like – but he’d also managed to get her interviews in _Weekly Playboy_ and _AERA_ , and a four-page color spread in _an・an_. Perhaps the most exciting development – one he didn’t want to talk about too much in fear of it falling apart around him – was the current contract negotiations in which he was engaged with Dentsu for an advertising campaign for Shiseido’s new line of premium hair care products. If he could close that deal, it would be unprecedented.

That thought was enough to sustain him through whatever new and varying methods of torture Kanzeon Bosatsu could dream up.

With these successes, compounded by the buzz generated by the series’ upcoming anime debut on Fuji TV, it had now reached the point where he was actually _turning down opportunities_.

Last week, when the lead producer from _It’s Okay to Laugh_ had called to request Kanzeon Bosatsu appear as a featured guest in the next week’s lineup, Jiro had almost dropped the phone. The show was, after all, the Holy Grail of daytime variety-show bookings and the fact that they wanted her to come and promote her series was huge. He’d accepted, making a mental note to cancel everything he’d already scheduled for that day, then had run downstairs as quickly as possible to catch a cab to Toyokawa Inari shrine. Upon arrival, he’d he deposited not one, but two ten-thousand yen notes in the offering box and offered a lengthy prayer to the deities enshrined there on her behalf.

The show was broadcast live and was watched by tens of millions of people nationwide. He was going to need all the help he could get.

 _It’s Okay to Laugh_ was huge – so huge that a mark of favor from Tamori, the show’s notorious host, could make a fledgling celebrity’s career. He’d had to beg and plead with one of his contacts at Fuji TV just to introduce him to an assistant producer there when he’d first started managing Fujiwara, and it had been two _years_ before he’d managed to talk her into booking the singer on the show. The fact that not even six months into his time as Kanzeon Bosatsu’s manager he’d received a call from Sato-san, the show’s lead producer – with no introduction and no groundwork having been laid – had been practically inconceivable.

“Sensei.” He knocked on the dressing room door as he saw one of the producers running toward him. It was 11:56 and the broadcast started at noon. “Your first segment begins in less than fifteen minutes!”

He waved at the producer and gave her the “OK” sign. The last thing he needed right now was someone breathing down his neck. The pain that had taken up residence under his ribcage not two weeks after meeting Kanzeon Bosatsu flared up, becoming a red-hot knife in his gut.

There were so many ways this could go terribly, terribly wrong. For the three hundred and twelfth time today, he cursed himself for agreeing to come to Studio Alta separately. She had, for the first time ever, arrived ahead of him and was already locked in the dressing room when he’d arrived. He had no idea what she was doing in there.

Even worse, he had no idea what she was wearing. Her fashion sense was unusual to say the very least, and her taste tended toward the … revealing. He could think of any number of outfits that she wore on a regular basis that would be completely and totally inappropriate. This was daytime television, after all.

This was _It’s Okay to Laugh_!

There was nothing in the world Kanzeon Bosatsu seemed to love more than being inappropriate and Jiro was terrified that she might have purposely chosen something shocking. He wouldn’t put it past her to do it just for the pleasure of seeing him panic.

_Beginning with her next booking, I’m insisting we go together. I’ll pick her up, pick out her clothes, and drive her. That will leave less room for … mishaps._

“Sensei, I’m coming in!” He turned the doorknob, bracing himself for the worst, and pushed open the door.

“Jiro! There you are!” Kanzeon Bosatsu sat in a chair in front of the mirror, a young stylist putting the final touches on her hair. “I can’t believe it – you’re late!” She turned and shot him a glare.

“L ..late?” Jiro sputtered. He was _never_ late. “I’ve been outside your door for thirty minutes!”

“Oh, have you?” She shrugged. “Well, no matter. You’re here now.” She removed the styling cape from around her shoulders and stood up, examining her reflection –

“My god, I look good.”

Jiro’s mouth went dry.

She looked better than good … she looked absolutely magnificent. Her hair, different from its usual style, was loose, cascading down her back in luxurious waves. Smaller curls framed her face and her makeup had been done in a way that skillfully highlighted her high cheekbones and brought out the unusual color of her eyes. He could see a light coat of gloss on her lips, emphasizing their fullness. The subtle changes of the makeup made her appear both softer and more sensual.

Jiro knew he was staring, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

 _After all_ , he justified to himself, _Sensei enjoys being admired. She expects it._

She was wearing a dress that he had never seen before: a sleeveless one-piece made of a diaphanous, off-white material that seemed almost weightless. She was, naturally, revealing more cleavage than he would have wished, but somehow the gold bands she wore around her neck, wrists and upper arms, as well as the large gold belt cinched tightly around her waist, distracted the eye.

The outfit, much like Kanzeon Bosatsu herself, was a contradiction. It was by no means provocative; it covered more skin than the vast majority of her wardrobe and was blessedly loose-fitting. But nonetheless, he found his awareness being drawn from one area of her body to another in a way that was absolutely not normal.

Jiro was not the type of man to let his gaze dwell on women’s bodies overly long. It was disrespectful – an invasion of their privacy. But he found himself staring openly at the place on Kanzeon Bosatsu’s shoulders where the strap of her dress rested, interrupting the soft shadow cast by her collarbone. He saw the way the gold band cut ever so slightly into the skin of her upper arm, shifting as her bicep flexed. His gaze lingered on the way her belt accentuated her waist and made a generous curve just barely visible as the dress fell loosely over her bottom. Another set of gold bands encircled her ankles. He wondered if they were cold, or if her body had already infused them with its heat.

She smiled at her reflection and winked at herself before turning to the stylist and embracing her. He couldn’t help notice that the poor girl’s face was pressed directly to the bare skin of Kanzeon Bosatsu’s cleavage. He looked away quickly, the sight sending a disturbing feeling racing through him.

“Yumiko, darling, you are magician! I should put you in my pocket and take you home with me.” She bent down and pressed a lingering kiss to the startled girl’s cheek. Yumiko looked like she was going to explode.

“Sensei, why don’t you let go of Yumiko-san.” He winced at the scolding tone he heard in his own voice. “What I mean is that I’m sure she has other people to whom she needs to attend …”

“Pl… please do your best!!” Yumiko stuttered as she bowed to Kanzeon Bosatsu, her face bright red. She turned and rushed toward the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Jiro sighed. “Did you really have to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Molest that poor girl.”

“Why Jiro,” Kanzeon Bosatsu was across the tiny room in three steps, standing directly in front of him, looking down her nose at him in _that way_. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous…”

A traitorous raced through his mind before he could stop it. _She’s even more breathtaking this close._

He took a step backwards unconsciously, back colliding with the flimsy wall. “I was trying to prevent a call from Sato-san complaining of a sexual harassment charge,” he attempted to explain. “Do you have any idea what that would do to your image?”

She braced one arm against the wall above his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, leaning forward so the firm weight of a breast pressed against his shoulder and the smell of her hair surrounded him. He could feel her breathing, the moist heat against his ear almost enough to make him go mad. “She’s not my type.”

He didn’t know what to say. She had him pinned against the wall and every instinct he possessed told him to run … except the ones that were telling him to stay and surrender to whatever insanity she had on her mind.

He felt her hand run up his side. Through the thick material of his jacket he imagined he could feel its warmth.

He didn’t know what to do.

From down the hall, the sound of cheerful synthesized music began. The broadcast had begun.

“Sensei…” He could hear the synchronized clapping of the audience and their scripted cheers. “You’re on soon.”

“Looks that way.” She didn’t move.

“Adachi-san, the producer, was looking for you.”

“Was she?”

“Yes.” He swallowed hard.

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want corrupt innocent little Adachi-san.” She removed her hand from his side and took a step back. “Would we?”

The places where her body had been pressed against his burned and he quelled a sudden urge to reach out to her by clenching his hand. She looked at him for a moment, head cocked with an inscrutable expression on her face.

“Kanzeon Bosatsu-sensei!” A loud rapping on the door interrupted whatever she’d been thinking. “If you could please come with me – it will soon be time for the first commercial break and you’re up after that.”

_Adachi-san._

“Well … that’s that, then.” She fluffed her hair and shook out her skirt. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck, Jiro?”

She still hadn’t learned that you didn’t actually wish someone luck before they went on stage!

“Break a leg, Sensei.”

  


~*~

  
The buzzing of his mobile phone woke Jiro from a bizarre dream in which he was Benjamin Franklin, flying a keyless kite as he stood knee-deep in the canal behind Kanzeon Bosatsu’s apartment. There had been an elephant there too, he was sure, laughing at him.

Even before he opened his eyes, he could tell it was still dark, which meant it was very early … or late, depending on one’s perspective. The soft blue-green light from the alarm clock proclaimed the time as 3:34 and there was only one person who ever called him at this hour. He fumbled for his phone and, sure enough, there was the shot of her cleavage that she’d somehow taken and set to appear on his phone every time she called.

He still hadn’t figured out how to change it.

He answered without even sitting up. “Sensei, I am not picking you up this time. Please, can’t you take a cab? You’re not that drunk, are you?” It was, unfortunately, entirely possible that she actually was that drunk, but he had to put a stop to her calling at all hours wanting a ride home from whatever bar she’d found herself in that night.

Even if it meant he had to be rude.

“Ah, Shin-san. Thank goodness.”

 _Wait, not her …_ But the voice was familiar.

“Who is this?”

“Shin-san, it’s Nataku. I’m very sorry to bother you so late.”

“Nataku-kun?” A jolt of panic passed through Jiro. Why was he using her phone? “Is Sensei all right?”

“Oh, yes. She’s fine … better than fine, actually. She’s _working_.”

While that certainly was unusual, Jiro didn’t see how it warranted a call at 3:30am. But Nataku, normally completely unflappable, actually sounded excited. “Is there some sort of a problem?”

“Usually I’d call Tenpou-san, but he’s in Rome this week with Ken-san.” Nataku’s voice was muffled and Jiro swore he could hear running water. “I don’t think he can get back in time…”

“In time for what?”

“Tenpou-san usually comes. She’s … well …” He paused. “She needs a lot of help when she’s like this.”

He heard a flush in the background. “Nataku, where _are_ you?”

“She’s been asking for him. I think she’s forgotten he’s not here, so I took her phone and came into the toilet to call you. I didn’t want to break her concentration.” More running water. “Can you please come over? She’ll be fine if you’re here. More than fine, actually.”

The line went abruptly dead.

_What on earth did Nataku mean?_

Jiro clenched his eyes shut and took a deep breath before sitting up and beginning to search through his phone for Tenpou’s mobile number. He found it and initiated the call. While a long silence stretched in front of him, punctuated only by the occasional pop and static of ten thousand kilometers of distance, the thought that Tenpou’s phone might not actually work in Europe sent another jolt of panic through him.

Even if it did work, it was possible that Tenpou might have turned it off.

Or that he might have forgotten to take his charger and it had run out of power.

Or that he could have been mugged and had his phone stolen.

He really hoped Tenpou wasn’t lying in an alleyway somewhere bleeding. There were a large number of criminals abroad, after all, who thought Japanese were easy targets and there was nothing Jiro could do to help him from so far away. He fumbled next to the alarm clock for the package of stomach pills his doctor had given him last week. He was going to need one …

Finally, he heard a click and the blessed sound of ringing, which seemed to go on forever.

“Pronto?”

“Tenpou?” _Gods, I hope it’s Tenpou._

“Sì. E chi è?

“Tenpou? It’s Jiro …”

“Oh, Jiro?” Tenpou was obviously caught off guard. “Would you mind holding for just one second?”

“Of course.” Jiro heard an exchange in rapid-fire Italian through what he could only imagine was Tenpou’s hand over the receiver.

“Thanks so much for waiting. I apologize: my phone didn’t register your number and I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize; I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time.” He felt horrible about interrupting Tenpou’s holiday, but he just couldn’t go to her apartment without first collecting some information.

“No, not at all. Although, isn’t it quite late there? There’s not a problem, is there?”

“I truly am sorry to disturb you during your private time, but I just received the strangest phone call from Nataku. He said that he’d normally call you ...”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he said that Sensei is working and asked me to come over.”

“Working? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Jiro swore he could hear the other man clapping. “Yes, he was right to call you. There’s no way I’d be able to make it back in time …”

“That’s exactly what he said. In time for what?”

“ … but now that I think about it, you’ve never seen her while she’s working, have you? This might just be for the best.”

“Of course I have.” Tenpou was making absolutely no sense. “She’s released seven chapters since I’ve been with her and there was the artbook release, and of course all her appearances …”

“Oh, but you’ve not seen her _work_.” Tenpou chuckled. “You really do need to see it. This is when the magic happens, after all. You’ll need to pick up a few things before you go. Do you have paper handy? I can give you the list…”

An hour later, just as the sun was beginning to rise, Jiro pulled into the parking spot beneath her apartment and unloaded the bags of supplies Tenpou had instructed him to get. From what he could gather from their conversation, “working” meant Kanzeon Bosatsu locking herself in her apartment for an indeterminate amount of time and actually focusing on drawing, to the exclusion of everything else.

It was so beyond the realm of the conceivable that it had to be seen to be believed.

Despite the incredibly early hour, Yokoyama-san, the elderly proprietor of the coffee shop that inhabited the first floor of Kanzeon Bosatsu’s building, was outside, dressed in a worn kimono and spraying down the sidewalk with an ancient hose.

“Shin-san, good morning!” She bowed. “It’s quite early, isn’t it?”

He quickly returned the bow. “Good morning to you, Yokoyama-san. Yes indeed, it is very early.”

“Does Sensei have an early-morning shoot? Oh dear, if you’re here this early you may very well have to set off an explosion to get her out of bed. But I’m sure it will be worth it.” She beamed at him. “I loved her pictures in last month’s _Hanako_ … so stylish, even if her skirts were a little short ...”

“Ah, well … I believe short skirts are supposed to be in fashion this summer.” Jiro gave an uncomfortable laugh, remembering the argument she’d gotten into with the people from the magazine over some of the more risqué poses she had wanted to include in the spread. No matter how they’d explained it, she’d had great difficulty accepting that an “itty-bitty peek of panty,” as she had called it, was inappropriate for their publication.

As arguments went, it had been relatively minor. He thought nothing could come close to the time a well-meaning graphic artist had gotten too enthusiastic with his photo editing program after a shoot to which Kanzeon Bosatsu had worn a very tight pair of jeans. Her cries of “ _They airbrushed my dick off!!_ ” would likely follow him to the grave.

“But no, no shoots today. Nataku called and mentioned that Sensei is working, so I’ve brought over some groceries and other supplies.”

“Oh, she’s _working_ … well goodness, that’s something … isn’t it!”

Jiro wondered why everyone seemed to say “working” as if it should be italicized.

“She’ll need coffee, then.” She bent over to turn off the water before laying the hose in front of the snoring Persian cat that seemed to do nothing but doze under her flowers. “You said Nataku is already here? I’ll bring up coffee for the three of you in a few minutes. And some of those tarts they both like as well.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want to trouble you …”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Shin-san. You do an excellent job taking care of her, but you really should let some of us help as well. Can’t have her all to yourself, you know.” She beamed at him again.

_What?_

As he made his way past Yokoyama-san’s second-floor apartment, the cacophony of what sounded like several saxophones engaged in a fight to the death floated down the stairwell from Kanzeon Bosatsu’s studio.

Nataku opened the door mere seconds after he rang the bell. “Shin-san! Thank goodness you made it.” He looked slightly flushed. “She’s been asking for Tenpou-san practically nonstop for the last 30 minutes and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Here, let me take those.” He grabbed the bags and disappeared into the studio’s small kitchen, no doubt entirely on purpose.

Jiro pulled the guest slippers out of the shoe cabinet and slipped into them. One of these days he was going to muster up enough nerve to replace the ratty pink Hello Kitty slippers with something more appropriate. He wouldn’t have thought they’d make such ridiculous slippers in adult sizes, but there they were.

“Tenpou?” Her voice carried even over the death cries of the saxophones. “Tenpou, is that you?”

“No Sensei, it’s Jiro.”

He turned the corner into the open space she used for her studio, which was practically the entirety of the third floor of the building. It was easily six times the size of his own apartment, with enormous floor to ceiling windows that offered an unobstructed view of the canal that cut through the neighborhood. It was sparsely furnished, containing only two large drawing desks, an oversized conference table, the computer station where Nataku spent much of his time, and an old sofa next to the cabinet that held her sizable music collection.

“Jiro?” She turned in her chair, pen still in hand. “What on earth are you doing here? No, never mind that – where’s Tenpou?”

“Tenpou’s in Rome for the week.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the screeching of the saxophones. “He gave me a list, though. And Yokoyama-san is bringing up coffee for you.”

Jiro couldn’t help but think that she looked just the slightest bit … rumpled. She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail an indeterminate amount of time ago and it was currently trying its best to free itself. The random curls that had worked their way loose framed her face in a wild, out-of control way and Jiro caught glimpse of a smudge of ink on the side of her nose. She was wearing a pair of track pants and a white t-shirt with “JUGGERNAUT” printed across the chest in bold black letters.

Naturally, she wore nothing underneath.

Jiro averted his eyes in an effort not to stare at the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton.

“Rome …that’s right!” She grinned in that way of hers that he’d come to learn something truly lewd had crossed her mind. “The romantic Roman holiday with Ken-chan. Well, I suppose you’ll have to do, won’t you, cupcake. I certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt his little lovefest. Lord knows, the only person more in need of getting laid than Tenpou is you. Even Nataku’s getting more than you are.” She winked at him before turning back to her work.

“Sensei!” Nataku stood in the door to the kitchen and actually looked upset. “I told you it is _not like that_.”

“Yes, you certainly have. And I’ve told you that I simply cannot imagine that you aren’t tapping that lovely young thing as often as humanly possible. I certainly would be if I were in your shoes …”

Nataku’s face turned a shade of crimson that didn’t suit him at all. “Genki. is. just. a. friend.”

“Of course he is, sugar, of course he is.” She chuckled. “Jiro, be a darling and change the music, will you? This isn’t doing it for me anymore.”

_Thank the gods for small favors._

Jiro put his bag down on the couch and he took the needle off the record. The silence that echoed in his ears gave him the same blessed feeling of relief that accompanied the moment a headache began to disappear or a hangover eased.

“What would you like me to put on?”

“Something soft – it doesn’t matter to me. What do you think, Nataku?”

“We haven’t listened to Koumyou in a while.” He sat down at the computer and resumed work on what appeared to be a particularly complex background.

“You’re absolutely right, we haven’t. Jiro, it’s a CD on the third shelf, I think. It’s not a commercial release so it’s in one of those thin cases.”

Jiro found the disc easily enough. He slipped it into the player and the room was suddenly filled with the warm tones of a single piano. Jiro didn’t know much about music (other than enka, of course) so he didn’t know exactly how to categorize what he was hearing. Kanzeon Bosatsu tended to prefer jazz and had an extensive collection, but his first instinct was to say this wasn’t jazz at all. It was similar, yet at the same time entirely different. It followed none of the patterns that he’d come to expect from jazz and had a strange sort of elegance that he’d not heard in anything else in her collection.

“Perfect choice.” She stood suddenly, putting her pen in the bottle of ink and stepping away from the page on which she’d been working. She looked it over for a moment and then bent over to gather a large pile of what appeared to be a combination of storyboards, rough sketches, and completely inked pages from the floor.

Jiro didn’t even attempt to convince himself that he didn’t greatly appreciate the way the motion showcased her bottom.

She picked up the stack and walked past the compact spiral staircase that led to the fourth floor: her apartment. Jiro had never been there before, but suspected it was decorated in black leather and shades of crimson. It most assuredly featured a room containing some of the same equipment he’d been traumatized by at that S&M club in Roppongi his colleague had dragged him to last year as a part of the man’s pre-wedding celebration.

He shuddered at the memory.

The conference table, Jiro noticed, was currently covered to overflowing with what he could only assume were her reference materials. The books, magazines, rolled up posters and random bits of paper had been accumulating for a month or two and the clutter had reached the point where it could no longer be contained on the table. It was now occupying space on the chairs and adjacent floor – truly an unprecedented state of disarray.

“Nataku, we’re going to borrow your table.” She grabbed the only chair at her reference table that was devoid of clutter and dragged it over to the other drawing table. She reached down and turned the table’s crank until its surface was flat, then dumped the stack of drawings on top of it.

“Jiro, sit down,” she commanded. “Since Tenpou is busy banging Ken-chan’s brains out, you will play his role. I’ve worked through the next bit and I need some reactions. You’ve read the series, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have!” He was just the slightest bit offended that she would think that he _hadn’t_.

“Good. I’ll talk you through the next ten chapters.”

“Ten chapters!?”

That was enough for almost a year.

“Yes, ten chapters … you really shouldn’t act so surprised. I think I’ve got another eight or so up here,” she tapped her head with a pencil to illustrate, “but I need to work out a couple of things first. That’s where you come in.”

“I really don’t know anything about all this…”

“No one _really_ knows anything, do they?” She pulled the first few pages off the pile and put them down in front of him. “It’s not brain surgery, it’s manga. I’ll talk you through all this and you tell me what you think.”

“What I think?” What was he _supposed_ to think?

“Yes, hot stuff, what you think. I want to know what would be going through that cute little head of yours if you were at home, reading this late all alone at night … in your futon … naked.”

“Sensei!” Jiro’s face flushed with embarrassment. He didn’t sleep in the nude!

“Okay, okay … maybe minus the naked part.” She waved her hand, a gesture he’d come to realize was her way of erasing part of a conversation. “What I’m trying to say is that I need you to be as honest with me as you would be inside your own mind. I need to know which parts you like or don’t like; what doesn’t make sense; what you find exciting or disappointing. And none of that self-editing I know you always do.”

She paused to give him a pointed look.

“When it comes out quickly … like this,” she put her hand on the stack, “I sometimes miss pieces. And this time, there are a couple places that I’m really just not sure about, so I need to talk it through with someone. Capiche?”

Jiro nodded. Further protestation would only fall on deaf ears.

“Okay, then. Let’s get started.”

Hours passed, dissolving around them in a blur as she dragged him through the labyrinth of her story. It had been terribly confusing at first; Jiro had read the series, but he hadn’t retained much more than the basic plotline. She constantly referred to minor characters and events – even single lines of dialogue that had take place dozens of chapters ago – and it took quite some time for him to sort everything out. When he finally did, it was as though something clicked inside of him and he finally saw the entirety of what it was she was doing.

Tenpou was right: she really and truly was a genius.

She was creating not just a single series with a finite run, but an entire franchise that had the potential to dominate the market. And what had run in _Ultra Jump_ up until this point had barely scratched the surface. She’d created a universe that was filled with a shocking diversity of civilizations, planets, colonies and races, and each of them had a role in her story. She’d developed whole histories, political systems, religions, and cultural practices that she’d weaved into her work – and the sheer genius was not that the content was there, but that the manner in which it had been incorporated into the manga was so subtle that it there were seeds she was planting that would not come to fruition until _years later_.

She was creating something that would appeal to both casual and avid readers and would continue to hold interest as the readers grew and matured.

It was brilliant.

The sun had been high in the sky, casting long shadows across the pale wood of the studio floor before Kanzeon Bosatsu had decided she was finished with him – for the time being – and had returned to her drawing table to storyboard the next chapters.

It was now terribly late – past 3am – and she showed no signs of stopping. Jiro had been up for close to 24 hours and the fatigue was beginning to take its toll. His vision had started to go blurry and he felt just the slightest bit detached from his body, as if it were moving a half-step ahead of him. Nataku had given up an hour ago and settled on the couch for a nap, but Jiro did not have that luxury. He had to make sure Kanzeon Bosatsu remained able to work as long as was necessary.

He opened the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the last clean coffee mug. He added a splash of milk before carefully measuring the requisite four sugars and pouring in the last of the coffee Yokoyama-san had brought hours earlier. He set the microwave for one minute and waited.

Nataku had mentioned that Kazeon Bosatsu had been working when he’d arrived at 10am the previous day and she’d worked nonstop until he’d called Jiro seventeen hours later. It was entirely possible that she hadn’t slept in close to 48 hours, yet she showed no signs of fatigue other than the dark shadows that had taken up residence under her eyes.

Jiro was of the opinion that they didn’t detract from her beauty in the slightest.

Over the course of the day he’d managed to convince her to stop long enough for a tart, then a rice ball and an energy drink, but that had been hours ago. He was afraid she’d soon reach the point where she would collapse and fall out of her chair from physical and mental exhaustion. His mental image of himself coming to her rescue in a terribly heroic fashion, however, was marred by the consideration that she could hit her head and concuss herself. If that happened, he’d be in a bind as he’d been so busy dealing with her that he’d allowed his Emergency Response certification to expire six months ago.

He grabbed the box of tarts, deciding that he’d try to coax her into at having the last one with her coffee.

She was bent over her drawing table, scribbling furiously on a storyboard. He placed the coffee on one of the miniature shelves were attached to the table by a moveable arm. “There’s a tart left, if you’d like it.”

“No.” She continued work on the page, not even bothering to look up.

“Yokoyama-san mentioned that they were best fresh, but that was quite some time ago.”

“Give it to Nataku.”

“He’s asleep.”

“Then you take it.” She brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, attention completely focused on the work in front of her. “I don’t have time.”

Jiro couldn’t help but sigh in frustration. She was so incredibly stubborn. He turned to leave, but suddenly her hand on his forearm stopped him.

“No wait … you’re right.” She put her pencil down and turned to him. “I’ll make time.”

“Good.” He had the good sense not to question her sudden change of attitude and simply handed her the box and a fork. “Yokoyama-san will be pleased to hear it.”

She grabbed her coffee and took a sip, scrutinizing him over the rim. “Jiro, you look like hell.”

Normally, this would have offended him, but she was only stating the obvious. He knew he looked quite bad. “This is what happens when I get emergency phone calls at 3:30am.”

“Is that what time Nataku called?” She stabbed the tart with her fork and picked it up whole.

“And I was here before five.” He watched in fascination as she shoved it into her mouth. There was something … dirty … about the action.

“You’ve been up almost 24 hours. You should get some rest.” She took another sip of coffee.

“You’ve been up longer than I have.”

“And I’ll be up a while longer yet. I need to finish this.”

“I’ll stay until you do.” He couldn’t leave now. It would be like leaving Hamlet after the third act.

“If Nataku didn’t look so incredibly adorable on the couch, I’d tell you to crash there.” She leaned to the side, looking past him to opposite side of the room. She chuckled. “He looks like a sleeping kitten. I almost expect to hear him purring.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you made that comparison.”

“Go upstairs. You can use my bed.”

_Her bed?_

“No, that’s really all right …” The thought of Kanzeon Bosatu’s bed prompted his mind to cue up a series of images that shocked him with their detail and pornographic nature.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – you look like you’re about to fall over. My god, why I didn’t notice it before …” She was immediately on her feet, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the staircase. “This is not a request, Jiro. Go upstairs, take a bath and get some sleep. I keep the bathwater hot and there are some spare things in the cabinet: toothbrushes and whatnot. Tenpou always forgets something. There should be a clean bathrobe in there as well that you can use.”

“Sensei, I really don’t think it’s appropriate.” The thought of bathing in her apartment, _sleeping in her bed_ … it was too much.

“Are you afraid that I’m going to come molest you in your sleep?”

“No! Of course not!” But now that he thought about it …

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

He struggled to find another excuse.

“I’ll make you a deal: if you go have a bath and a nice, long nap, I’ll eat that bentou you were trying to shove down my throat earlier. How does that sound?”

 _Surprisingly equitable_ , he thought.

“And the banana?”

“And the banana, darling.” She reached over and pinched his cheek.

He supposed he didn’t have much of a choice.

Her apartment turned out to be much less intimidating than he’d imagined. There was no black leather furniture, no crimson velvet, and a notable absence of instruments of torture. The only thing that made it even remotely remarkable was its size – a family of six could have easily lived there.

There was also the matter of the absolutely enormous bed that occupied the apartment’s one and only bedroom. Jiro had never seen a bed that large before, not even in the movies. He imagined that four people could easily sleep in it without encountering each other at all over the course of a night. As he stood in front of it, bathrobe wrapped tightly around him and hair damp from the bath, he tried very, very hard not to think of why Kanzeon Bosatsu needed a bed that large.

He’d drawn the curtains shut, but the proximity of those floor to ceiling windows was still unnerving for some reason. He knew no one could see through them – they were made of one-way glass, after all – but he could still imagine someone across the canal being at just the right angle to see him standing there in a fluffy green robe, staring at her bed.

He lay down on the side furthest from the windows and rolled over, facing the bedroom door that he’d closed firmly behind him. He pressed his face into the pillow and when he breathed in, the smell of her surrounded him, feeding a gnawing sensation deep within him. The soft, surprisingly practical cotton pillowcase and sheets smelled just as he thought Kanzeon Bosatsu would smell as she crawled into bed, skin moist and flushed from the heat of her bath.

He was sure she was the type to sleep in the nude.

He teetered on a mental precipice for a split second: his pulse began to quicken and he felt the first stirrings of physical arousal. It would have been so easy to give in to it – to allow himself to harden as he imagined how that skin might feel under his fingers, hot and pliant, and the sounds she might make as he worshiped her body.

But the realization of how incredibly inappropriate it would be for him to have an erection in her bed crashed down upon him, having an effect similar to a bucketful of ice water.

Jiro Shin was never, ever, inappropriate.

He rolled onto his back and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He needed to think of something soothing … something innocuous. Kittens or puppies. Ponies. Rainbows.

His brain called forth an image from a trip he’d taken as a teenager: still turquoise water and a bright cerulean sky, stretching endlessly before him, wiping from his mind anything other than a vast, calm sky.

_Every day in paradise is perfect._

_Predictable._

It was remarkably easy to allow himself to slip far enough into that peaceful stillness that his thoughts stopped altogether.

He didn’t know how long he remained there, but the first thought he had on the other side was that he was most certainly asleep.

He was in that bizarre realm of sleep that one reaches only when one’s body is utterly exhausted but one’s mind is clamoring for consciousness. He knew for a fact that he was sleeping. He also knew that he very much needed to wake up; however, he seemed to be stuck at the bottom of an impossibly deep ocean of viscous fluid through which he could not rise. No matter how much he tried to ascend, he found himself pinned to the ocean’s floor by the weight above him.

 _To wake up, I just need to open my eyes_ , he thought. _Just open them._

And that simple realization was all he needed.

The first thing he noticed as he finally came to consciousness was that he’d slept long enough for the sun to rise and the day to have begun.

The second thing he noticed was that he’d slept deeply enough for Kanzeon Bosatsu to have climbed into her bed without his noticing. She was currently on top of him, sitting upright and straddling his pelvis. His robe must have worked its way loose while he slept, because she was also stroking his bare chest with two fingers.

“Rise and shine, gorgeous.” She was wearing an expression he’d never seen before and he couldn’t decide if it was arousing or something that scared the hell out of him.

Truthfully, it was equal parts both.

He noted that she had bathed. The smudge on the side of her nose was gone, her damp hair was loose around her shoulders, and she’d changed t-shirts: this one was also white, but read “Experience That Tingling Sensation.” She was, naturally, not wearing a bra.

She also was not wearing pants.

Or a skirt.

Or shorts.

She was, however, wearing a pair of white lace panties that left very little to the imagination. And it was very, very obvious that she was greatly enjoying herself.

Jiro could not, for the life of him, think of a single thing to say.

“I finished. It’s going to be incredible.” She seemed almost breathless.

It took him longer than it should have to realize she was talking about the manga.

He wondered … what did one say in such a situation to one’s only partially clothed and very obviously aroused client while said client sat on top of one? “Congratulations” seemed like it might fall somewhat flat.

“It’s always such a rush working like that.” It seemed she needed no response. “I’d describe it as being like sex, but there’s no resolution. It’s just ongoing, endless foreplay – the kind that gets you so hot and bothered that you’re begging for it. The kind that makes you think you’d do anything for release.”

Her fingers continued their path up and down his chest.

“This time it’s so much worse, though. I don’t know why – if it’s because I did so much, or because it was you here instead of Tenpou …” Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at him.

“Do you do this to Tenpou?” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

She looked at him for a split-second, then threw her head back and laughed, long and loud.

“Oh, you really are the most adorable thing in the world, aren’t you?” She bent down and embraced him, then rose up just enough to prop herself on her forearms, bringing her face in very close proximity. The violet of her eyes was almost black at close range.

He tried very hard to ignore the feel of her nipples, hard under the flimsy cotton of her shirt, as they pressed against his bare chest.

“Darling, Tenpou is as gay as the day is long. And while he would appreciate some of my charms, others I feel he certainly would not.” She stroked his temple with her thumb. “There’s absolutely no reason to worry your pretty little head over him.”

Those charms, Jiro noticed, were currently pressed tightly against him and he felt himself rapidly rising to the occasion. His face heated and he started to sit up.

“Oh no, sweetie, you’re not getting away that easily.”

She grabbed his forearms and pressed them above his head, causing all thought to come to a screeching halt. The only thing his mind registered was that what Kanzeon Bosatsu had just done to him – the simple act of pinning his arms to the bed – was one of the most erotic things he had ever experienced in his woefully inadequate time as a sexually active man.

The gnawing sensation from before blossomed into need, painful and deep.

“You seem like the kind of guy who needs a measure of control, so I’d planned to wait for you to make the first move. But no matter how obvious I made it, you never did.” She rocked her hips against him, sending sparks of sensation up his spine. “I’m tired of waiting, Jiro. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You never say anything, but I can see it …”

He began to apologize, but Kanzeon Bosatsu cut him off.

“And don’t even think about apologizing. I’m tired and I’m turned on, and you’re just way too tempting lying there all disheveled and confused. You really have no idea what it does to me, the things I want ...” He hadn’t noticed it before but there was a wild look in her eyes, like she was just the slightest bit out of control.

“If you don’t want this, you’d better say so now.”

He said the only thing he could.

“ _Please_ …”

Her mouth was on his before he’d even finished the word. She let go of his arms, took his face in her hands and soon he was drowning in the feel of her lips, firm and wet against his. The focus of his world narrowed to the sensation of her weight on top of him and the taste of her tongue in his mouth as she attempted to devour him whole.

He felt a momentary pang of regret that she’d released his arms, but he was now free to explore her body in a way he’d never allowed himself to even fantasize about. His hands connected with her knees and he reveled in the feel of her warm, soft skin against his palms. He moved them slowly upward, tracing the muscular outline of her leg until he encountered the delicate lace covering her bottom. He groaned into her mouth as he slipped his hands underneath and cupped her buttocks in his hands.

He could spend hours like this, he thought, tracing her soft curves as she ground against him in pursuit of her own pleasure. He would let her do whatever she wanted with him – use him however she pleased.

Her hands were everywhere, pushing his robe aside and toying with his nipples, teasing them to hardness and pinching almost to the point of pain. She raked her nails down his side and arched against him as he pulled her tight to him in reaction. There were no words to describe the feel of her length pressed against his. Even through the thick cotton of his robe it was almost enough to short-circuit his brain.

She pulled back long enough to grab the hem of her shirt and pull it off, tossing it over the edge of the bed. Jiro took a moment to take in the sight of her, naked save for a small scrap of lace. She seemed some sort of wild goddess, hair cascading around her as she sat atop him, flushed and panting with arousal.

It made him want to do everything in his power to give her whatever she needed.

He pushed himself upright, slipping his arms out of his robe before winding his hands in her untamed hair and pulling her to him so their mouths met again. He hadn’t had enough of her taste – he wanted to savor her, to drink her down and lose himself in her pleasure. He took her breast in his hand, felt her gasp into his mouth as he caressed its heavy weight and ran his thumb over her nipple. He trailed kisses down the long column of her neck before taking that taut peak in his mouth. She tasted of salt and the distant vanilla perfume of her soap.

The low, guttural sounds she made as his tongue toyed with her nipple went straight to his groin. It made him wonder what other kinds of noises he might be able to hear her produce and in what other ways he could make her body react.

Her hands flew to his head, undoing the tie that held back his hair until it fell loose around his shoulders. She dug her fingernails into his scalp, pulling him closer to her. Emboldened, he shifted and took her other nipple into his mouth, lightly grazing it with his teeth. She shuddered and arched against him, and he increased the pressure bit by bit until he was almost certain he was causing her pain.

“Oh …yes,” she groaned, her hands fisting his hair. “I knew it would be like this …”

Jiro had no idea what she meant and couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. The only thing he could think of was getting rid of the few layers of cloth that remained between them and reveling in the feel of her naked body against his. He wanted to spread her before him, drowning in her taste as he brought her to climax again and again with his mouth and his fingers. He wanted to feel her arousal hard and hot in his grasp. He wanted to know the sensation of it heavy inside his mouth … to explore its texture and know the taste of her essence on his tongue.

Gods help him, he wanted her to _fuck him_.

She sat back suddenly, pulling her breast from his mouth, and he couldn’t help the groan of frustration that escaped him. She looked down at him, eyes hooded and breathing rapid, before she leaned down and brushed her lips gently against his. She then scrambled over him in a surprisingly less-than-graceful fashion and made her way to the side of the bed. She pulled open a drawer and rustled around in it before turning back to him.

“Darling, as much as I’d love to pin you down and attempt to suck your brains out through your dick right now, I think I might explode if you don’t fuck me soon.” She crawled to him and placed a condom in his hand. “Do you think you can do that?”

Despite his desire to spend the next several hours in leisurely exploration of her body, Jiro quickly decided that what she’d just suggested was pretty much the best idea in the history of the world.

He nodded.

“Good.”

As he slid his boxers off and quickly rolled the latex sheath over himself, she shimmied out of her panties and sat in front of him – naked and fully erect. Jiro had never imagined anything could possibly exist that was exquisite as she was in that moment. Her skin was practically glowing in the morning sun and her considerable attention was focused entirely on him, an expression of uninhibited lust on her face.

She was waiting for him.

He was across the bed before he realized it, pushing her to the mattress and pressing himself against her in a way that have mortified him had he not been so incredibly aroused. His length connected with hers, and he had an image of reaching down, taking them both in his hand and pumping them together until they spilled between their bodies. Just the thought of what that would look like was enough to force a moan from his throat.

He wanted it so badly he could almost taste it.

Her hands were in his hair again, pulling his face to hers as she wrapped her legs around him, canting her hips so he slid downward and connected with blinding heat.

“Now, Jiro …” She breathed against his mouth, not a request but a command.

He slid inside her in a single motion. Her hands dropped to his shoulders and she bent upward, her head falling back as she tried to take him in as deeply as possible.

The feel of her surrounding him was nothing short of earth-shattering. As he began to move within her, he tried to focus on her face. He wanted to see her – to see the effect his actions were having on her … the effect _he_ was having on her – but it was too much for him. The way her mouth fell open and the most delicious noises came forth from her throat as he sought to press deeper and deeper … the way her brow furrowed and her eyes lost focus as he changed the angle of his thrusts … it brought him to the edge too quickly to be believed.

He needed to look away … he _had_ to look away …

But just then, she locked eyes with him, her chest heaving and body trembling, and he realized that somehow … she was just as close as he.

“More,” she mouthed. “Harder.”

And he could do nothing but give her what she needed. He increased his pace, reaching between them to finally take her length in hand. The feel was incredible and he wished again that he would have had time to taste … to savor her. He rubbed the slick of moisture at the tip with his thumb and began to work her in time with his thrusts.

He wanted to focus. He tried so terribly hard, but she suddenly came with a cry, back arching and nails digging painfully into his back. He felt the amazing duality of her orgasm: the blossom of warmth on the skin between them and the contractions of her body around him as she finally found her pleasure. As if in response, the crest of his own climax finally overtook him and he emptied into her in a tidal wave of pleasure that swept him away into oblivion.

  


~*~

  
Jiro Shin had never been the kind of person to awaken quickly. Despite the fact that he was overworked, overscheduled, and prone to fits of extreme anxiety, he slept very, very well when given the chance. On this particular occasion, his deep, dreamless sleep was interrupted by the discomfiting sensation that something was not quite right and it took very little time for him to realize what exactly was wrong.

He was naked.

And Jiro never, ever slept in the nude.

He sat up abruptly, realizing that in addition to being naked, he was most certainly not sleeping on his thin futon, unfolded on hard tatami mats. The harsh white glare of a streetlight seeped in from behind curtains that covered enormous windows and cast dark shadows on the rumpled sheets of an obscenely large bed.

It was night and an unknown number of hours ago, Jiro had had sex with Kanzeon Bosatsu.

 _Oh no …_ He pressed his hands to his forehead. It was too much to be believed … not only had they had sex, but he’d had the terribly bad manners to _pass out_ afterwards and not wake up until _hours_ later.

_What am I going to do?_

The first thing he needed to do was find his clothes. He crawled out of bed, grabbing a sheet for modesty’s sake and fumbling around on the floor until he found his boxers, which he quickly slid on. His actual clothing, if he recalled, was hanging in the shower, which – of course – was on the opposite side of the apartment.

_Could things get any worse?_

His hair tie seemed to have gone permanently missing, but he managed to find the robe he’d used earlier in the day shoved under a pillow in the middle of the bed. He threw it on and crossed to the bedroom door.

_She could have gone back to work. She might be downstairs …_

He said a quick prayer to whatever deities covered this kind of situation before he slid open the door.

Kanzeon Bosatsu sat at her kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee and flipping through a magazine. Half of her head was covered in enormous cylindrical rollers and the other half was currently being brushed by Yumiko, the stylist from Studio Alta.

“Good _morning_ , Jiro …did you sleep well?”

“Shin-san, long time no see!” Yumiko smiled and gave a quick wave before grabbing a roller and beginning to wrap another lock of hair around it.

Jiro had no idea what the appropriate response in such a situation might be.

“Yumiko has agreed to come over every now and again for a bit of freelance work. Isn’t that fantastic?” She patted the girl on her arm.

He finally found his voice. “That’s … great.”

“You know, Jiro.” She licked her finger and turned the page. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you forgot about my appearance tonight.”

_Oh my god …_

He had completely forgotten that she’d had a booking tonight.

 


End file.
